Dirtying the Paper
by asimbelmyne
Summary: She wanted to run, to flee, to dive into the forest before he could say anything about the nature of her drawing, but his eyes continued to demand her attention, narrowed in scrutiny and naked in their sincerity, tracing the lines she had painstakingly scribbled across her sketchbook.


_"Looters become looted, while time and tide make us mercenaries all."_

 _― Patrick Rothfuss_

* * *

Rey couldn't pinpoint the exact moment Ben's face had appeared in her sketchbook, but she knew that it had required little effort on her part, an act far too natural to be normal. Something in his eyes had captured her attention, a remote glow that reminded her of dappled sunshine, warm without really intending to be, struggling to make itself known. His stare gave voice to secrets he refused to entertain in the presence of anyone but himself, secure in the knowledge that his mouth would never betray his mind. He lived in blissful ignorance, purposely avoiding anything that threatened to crack his composure. His potential had been buried behind a sheet of glass so opaque she could hardly see through it, seeping into his irises like smoke, bleeding into brown, black, and white until nothing but passivity remained in its wake. Their interaction had been brief, but the look in his eyes lingered long after his back had faded into the distance, a blur of black surrounded by an endless expanse of green. Her sketchbook had captured the essence of his soul, rendering his eyes in muted tones of black and grey, colours she wished she hadn't used. Her pencil had seemed inadequate in the face of someone so brutally complicated.

She had always been fond of graphite, devoting hours to its use, sketching anything she could get her hands on, but Luke's lessons were of little consequence when it came to Ben. He encouraged her growth in artistry, but disliked anything that had to do with him. Ben's name had become as crude as a curse, immortalizing his egotism and destroying the solidarity his penchant for painting had provided. In his search for fame, Ben's love for art had been forgotten in favour of greed, lost somewhere in the throes of his paintbrush. Rey had never seen his work, but Luke would often speak of it in reverence, allowing the sheer memory of its beauty to saturate his words, imbuing his voice with colour, line, and light. She lived in Ben's shadow, evading his failures in an effort to assert her prowess as an artist, her resilience in the face of adversity, and her strength in defying his darkness, something she knew he'd never been able to fully accomplish. Her life as Luke's apprentice had never been difficult, but difficulty often arose in his inability to let his nephew's decline fade from memory. He continued to shoulder the weight of it, blaming himself when all else had failed, refusing to move beyond the mountain Ben had erected in his path.

Rey's time with Luke had provided her with enough knowledge of Ben's exploits to make her feel as though she had known him herself. Her curiosity had become immobilizing and she didn't really know why. She yearned to create something that would make Luke stare at her in the same way he'd reminisce about Ben's work, eyes glazed over in memory, alight with something akin to wonder, something she wished he'd bestow upon her drawings, her sketches, or even her paintings. That day had yet to pass, but Rey had grown used to waiting. She had been waiting for Luke's constructive criticism for many, many years. Her time had been spent in solitude, sitting amongst the trees at the edge of his estate, drawing until her fingers had turned black from exertion, practicing. She'd often draw the things she'd loved as a child, sketching familiar faces and places until they all seemed to meld together, forming one solid scene. Sometimes she'd see Jakku's barren fields, the shape of her father's mouth, or the delicate curve of her mother's eye. Everything seemed scattered, balanced precariously across her sketchbook like a constellation, never completely coherent. When Ben had appeared in the clearing for the first time, marching through the forest en route to Luke, she had seen something familiar reflected in his gaze, something she had only ever seen in herself.

He came and went after that like a storm, always predictable and always alight in anger. His eyes found a place in the blank spaces of her sketchbook, alike in some ways, but different in others. She could never get the shape right. His irises always ended up being a shade lighter than she preferred, brimming with emptiness, displaying a loneliness so acute that it made her heart ache in reciprocation, a look too sorrowful to belong on anyone's face. She felt as though she were doing him a great disservice.

It was then she'd stop.

Rey tucked her pencil behind her ear, chewing absentmindedly on her lower lip. Her sketchbook lay abandoned on the ground, far enough away to calm the tempest that raged in her heart. Ben had become an obsession, inching his way into her thoughts until he had taken root there, unfurling like a flower. She wished he hadn't broken Luke's heart. She had spent enough time with him to see how much Ben's actions had cut him to the core, mutilating his love for art and everything that had come with it. His teachings were tinged with guilt, saturating everything she had fought for and everything she had yet to accomplish, staining her work like blood, proof that he had been caught red-handed, immersed in his own personal ocean of grief. Rey could hardly grasp her pencil in his presence, let alone draw the things he wanted her to, but she continued to persevere, hoping beyond measure that her devotion would rekindle his former self. Ben had been Luke's greatest student, but had become his greatest regret. She hated him for destroying everything Luke had embodied, but pitied his lack of judgement, his disregard of self, and his stupidity for allowing avarice consume everything that had made him human. His artwork had been beautiful once, pure of heart. She didn't want to know what it had become.

Rey closed her eyes, withdrawing her hair from the nape of her neck, pilling it atop her head in a series of messy knots. Her pencil was jostled from its roost above her ear. She swore out loud, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath, seeking purchase where there was none, freezing in terror. Ben had returned from his visit with Luke. He stood several feet away from her, pencil in hand, staring at her sketchbook with a look on his face that resembled curiosity. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, a line that vocalized everything she knew him to be feeling. She wanted to run, to flee, to dive into the forest before he could say anything about the nature of her drawing, but his eyes continued to demand her attention, narrowed in scrutiny and naked in their sincerity, tracing the lines she had painstakingly scribbled across her sketchbook. When he looked up, staring at her for the first time since their encounter weeks prior, a part of her heart hitched in rhythm, forcing the air from her lungs. Her desire to flee disappeared.

"Your shading is wrong," he said, gripping her sketchbook tighter between his hands. "My eyes are darker than this, but I doubt you'd know that."

"It's nothing. Give it back."

"Nothing? That's an understatement."

The urge to run returned in full force, pulling at her conscience like a string. Ben had become a ghost, stripped bare of meaning, seeping into her bones like lead, weighing her down and siphoning her strength. Rey lived in a storm of his making, one that continued to persist, bouncing from place to place like a ball, always in motion. He stuck out like a sore thumb, a problem that continued to grow, bleeding across her vision like Jakku, a colourless void of brown, red, and black, draining her dry. Instead of avoiding her, he had chosen to linger. His proximity made her uncomfortable. The look in his eyes sent chills down her spine, staining her cheeks until they were as red as her lips, stretching across shoulders, arms, and chest until she looked as flushed as an apple. She could see why Luke had grown angry with him. His capacity to sympathize had become a withered thing, weak in comparison to his love of self, spoiling everything that would have made him a great man. His conceit was as obvious as the freckles scattered across his pale face, a poison that threatened to swallow his mouth, his nose, and the emotional integrity she'd seen in his eyes.

"I'll pry it from your hands if I have to," she persisted angrily, infiltrating his space.

His smile was unexpected, yet there in its entirety. "I'd like to see you try."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Do you?" he asked, allowing his eyes to flit across her face. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

"It's _my_ sketchbook."

"Finders keepers," he said, his voice a low timbre. "I take what I want."

Rey didn't know how to respond to his suggestion. She stared into his eyes until he had grown quiet, searching for cracks in her composure, cracks she'd never let him see. His gaze was intense, the stare of an artist skilled enough to see inside of her heart, but not skilled enough to stay there. Unlike Ben, Rey had lived a life of devoid of colour, a life filled with greys as lifeless as rainclouds, untouched by light, empathy, and art. Luke's compassion had taught her many things, strengthening her constitution, reinforcing her belief in humanity, and changing her outlook on life. Her inner world had always been vibrant. When she looked into Ben's eyes, she caught a glimpse of the man he had been, and the man he could become. He was beautiful, unfolding before her like a map, a map he had hidden so far inside of himself that he had forgotten where it had gone. His heart was as resilient as his soul, made to endure, made to last, and made to love. He had lived so long in ignorance, ascending somewhere beyond Luke's frustrating cynicism in an attempt to become his own person, misplacing his love for art along the way. If he was a monster, so was she.

"Not everything," she said at last, wishing he had the courage to simply be himself. "There are some things you don't have the strength to take."

* * *

When Rey saw Ben again, his eyes were the colour of autumn leaves, flashing like bits of amber in the storm they had found themselves in, softening the sharp panes of his face until he seemed to blend into the background. She had tucked her pencil behind her ear as an afterthought, admiring the shape of his figure against the blackened sky, clutching her sketchbook against her chest in an attempt to ward off her thoughts. She had bought herself a new one, but it lacked character. Her encounter with Ben had left her restless. She didn't know how to let his words go, how to ignore everything he'd said and everything he'd intended to do, afraid of what it may have meant to her and to him. He was a mess, a puzzle left unattended, waiting for someone brave enough to put each piece back into place without flinching. Rey was afraid of what she had seen in him. Her hands shook in anticipation, thrumming with an energy that rivalled the distant sound of thunder and the steady beat of her heart, pounding through her veins like a drug, heightening her senses. She reached up with one hand, pulling her hair up and over her head, tying it in place. This time, her pencil stayed where it was. He moved so that he was standing in front of her, standing so close that she could hear the way his breath hitched, whistling through his lips like the wind, brushing across her face.

"You need a teacher," he said, sharing her air. "I can help you."

"I have Luke. He's always been enough."

His eyes flashed again, this time in anger. "You're wasting your potential."

"Am I?" she asked, digging her nails into sketchbook. "I'd rather break my wrist than go anywhere with you."

"Is that what you really think?" he demanded, staring into her eyes. "Ah, it is."

"Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what? Like I know you? I'm not blind, Rey. We're alike and you can't even see it."

"You're nothing like me," she cried, sounding angrier than she felt. "You abandoned your family!"

His stare grew more intense, a silent challenge she refused to acknowledge. His life had become meaningless, a cautionary tale Luke had been desperate to weave into her lessons, something she had taken to heart in an attempt to please him. She didn't know _who_ Ben was, what he had been like as a child, or why he had strayed so far from his path in life. She had grown to understand his loneliness from sheer circumstance alone, but had neglected to realize that their struggles had often been the same. The reality of his words hurt more than their implications, bruising her heart and everything she had placed inside of it. Her love for Luke seemed tainted, tarnished at the edges, black where it had once been white. She couldn't forgive herself. Her betrayal would break his heart, ruining everything she had worked towards, everything he had taught her, and everything they had achieved together.

"Join me," Ben pleaded, curling a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Her response was swallowed by the sound of thunder.

* * *

When Rey saw Ben for the last time, he had brought her sketchbook with him. She had left hers behind, stowed safely in the shelter of Luke's hands, a promise made of graphite, pulp, and integrity. She would return one day, with or without his nephew, but had grown to understand that her place in his life had been overshadowed by Ben's betrayal. Luke needed time to heal, and she needed time to figure out who she wanted to be. For the first time in her life, Rey could see bits of blue beyond the storm she'd lived in, peeking through the clouds in an effort to be seen. It had always been there. She would have smiled if it weren't for the look on Ben's face, a mix between anger and remorse, as if he knew exactly what she was doing and why. She wished he'd understand, but they had grown beyond compassion, beyond conceit, and beyond their playful animosity. When she looked into his eyes, she saw him for what he was. He was simply Ben.

"You're leaving," he stated sharply, filling her space. "Why?"

She smiled, but it was a bitter thing, filled with words she'd never say out loud. "You may have taken my sketchbook, but I won't let you take my heart too."

She wanted to draw the look on his face, how his mouth had fallen open in shock and how his soul had taken flight, breaking free from the cage he'd locked it in for so long. In the span of a heartbeat, Ben had become the man she'd seen in the storm, raw in his sincerity, wishing she'd take his hand. His fingers curled across her cheek in an attempt to still her thoughts, pulling her close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough to feel his warmth stretching across her skin like the sun, and close enough to taste his breath, swallowing her whole. He was a broken man, incomplete in more ways than one. She wished he'd find it in himself to forget, moving forward until his past had become one solid blur, embracing his future instead of lingering in places too dark and too cold to provide closure.

"Don't go," he whispered, brushing his lips against her own, a ghost of a kiss.

Rey pulled away, gripping the edge of her sketchbook until it slipped from his fingers.

"Goodbye, Ben," she said, looking into his eyes one last time.

His fingers fell from her face but his warmth remained, a permanent reminder of everything she'd lost.

* * *

Rey opened her sketchbook several days later in the window seat of a train on its way to France, far away from Luke's lessons and Ben's piercing stare. She had pulled her hair into a low-lying bun, allowing it to rest against her neck in an attempt to protect her pencil's place above her ear, prepared to draw for the first time in many weeks. What she saw embedded into its pages broke her heart.

She saw herself, a mess of colour, line, and light so vibrant and so beautiful that she nearly cried, sinking into her seat until she thought it would swallow her whole.

It had required little effort on his part. He had taken everything she hadn't already been willing to give.

* * *

 **A/N:** For Leann, who likes my writing but hates my trash.


End file.
